


In fits and starts

by atheartagentleman



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Piningjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of Enjolras’ general awareness of his surroundings was thus the knowledge that he had something of a Grantaire problem. (‘No, for the last time, Jehan, I am not pining’ (lines had to be drawn somewhere after all)). He was also well aware that the customary – and indeed sensible – thing to do in such circumstances was to ask the object of one’s not-pining on a date. Except, well, it was a little complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In fits and starts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely Maddi (tumblruser suchbluesky) -- sorry it took me so long.
> 
> Many thanks to capricorn-child and cossetcosette for their help in betaing this for me.

For all that he adored his friends, they had often accused Enjolras of obliviousness, of excessive focus on his activism at their expense, and even of neglect. He, in turn, had always felt that this heavy charge-sheet was unfair and misguided. Although he could readily admit that he sometimes got a little too caught up in his latest piece of injustice, he was always aware of the main happenings and dramas their lives. They seemed to attract drama, and Enjolras could never work out whether his friends were an especially dramatic bunch, or whether that was just an inevitable function of a group that size.

In short, he was nowhere near as blind to his surroundings as they often made him out to be. There was one person in particular of whom he was perpetually and painfully hyper-aware: the often-drunk, often-infuriating, always-eloquent and unfairly-good-at-everything Grantaire. _I really want to punch you in the face_ , Enjolras raged internally, _but I also want to kiss you until air is just a distant memory, and how is that even humanly possible?_ And yet, Grantaire had always been an exercise in contradiction, seemingly able to achieve the impossible while waving  off his preternatural abilities with a flick of his hand and a self-deprecating smile.

Part of Enjolras’ general awareness of his surroundings was thus the knowledge that he had something of a Grantaire problem. (‘No, for the last time, Jehan, I am not _pining_ ’ (lines had to be drawn somewhere after all)). He was also well aware that the customary – and indeed sensible – thing to do in such circumstances was to ask the object of one’s not-pining on a date. Except, well, it was a little complicated.

******

‘It’s not complicated, E, you’re just being pathetic.’

‘Your commentary is as unwelcome as ever,’ Enjolras returned waspishly, without looking up and wondering at what point exactly he had started thinking aloud.

‘I’m just saying, last time you tried talking to him, you ran out of the room, then out of the _building_ and spent like half an hour hiding in one of those ‘cash for gold’ places.’

Combeferre walked in to find Enjolras cheerfully strangling Courfeyrac. He blithely ignored Courf’s garbled pleas for help, wished them both a good morning, set down his bag and went to scour the rest of the library for textbooks and examine his taste in friends.

‘I’m just saying you should actually _talk_ to him,’ (and clearly the strangulation wasn’t working).

‘You keep ‘just saying’ things like you think I’m interested in hearing them.’

Still, Courfeyrac was right, and it was getting harder to pretend he didn’t stare at Grantaire whenever the latter wasn’t looking. (What he didn’t know was that he and Grantaire were in fact taking it in turns to stare at each other, like some morbidly fascinating game of ‘do they seriously not realise’ tennis).

******

His mind thus newly resolved (and Courfeyrac’s body successfully hidden), Enjolras lurked and waited for the next opportune moment to talk to the cynic – although really, the term ‘cynic’ was unfair. Enjolras’ great moment of realisation about Grantaire had come when it finally clicked that R was in fact nowhere near as much of a nihilist as he claimed to be. That he did care – cared so much it hurt – but chose to deal with it through studious indifference rather than fighting for change. Though Enjolras couldn’t fathom such a coping mechanism, he more than understood the caring and the hurting parts of the equation.

The Opportune Moment, however, came sooner than he had anticipated, and rapidly devolved into a master-class in confusion and humiliation.

Grantaire had stayed back in the Musain after one of their meetings, absorbed in furious scribbling and annotation in his sketchbook. Enjolras watched from the other side of the room (‘creeper’, Courfeyrac’s voice commented in his head), almost revelling in the way his stomach did happy-anxious fluttery things when he noticed the stray curl that brushed the bridge of Grantaire’s nose.

So caught up was he in his observation and marathon-hovering that he had to make a conscious effort to stop chewing his lip, and only became aware that he was doing it at all when he broke the skin with a sharp flash of pain. By the same token, he also stuffed one hand into his pocket to prevent himself from fidgeting with his cuffs. Having assumed this forced nonchalance, he approached Grantairein skittish fits and starts (‘you are the motherfucking king of smooth here, E’ – ‘shut it, Courf!’).

Clearing his throat nervously (and oh god, who even _does_ that?), Enjolras attempted a smile and threw himself on the mercy of his famed talent for finding the right words mid-improvisation.

‘So, uh, whatareyoudoing?’ (So much for that talent, then).

To add insult to injury, Grantaire did not even look up from his work, but merely flapped his unoccupied hand at the other man in a gesture that was equal parts ‘shh’ and ‘not now’. Enjolras rocked back on his heels, blinking in shock. He poked experimentally at the unexpected sensation that flared up and was puzzled to discover that it was hurt. Grantaire never shushed him or waved him away but always made time for him, willing to drop whatever else he might have been doing at the time.

And huh, that was something of a realisation. Enjolras turned it over and over in his mind, probing it like a loose tooth, the pain just interesting enough to be enjoyable. Not that he had the slightest idea as to the meaning of his new insight, let alone what to do with it. He might be hyper-aware of Grantaire and of his own feelings (‘it’s not pining, dammit!’), but his obliviousness with regard to R’s feelings was the subject of much hand-wringing and hilarity among his friends.

As he mulled these thoughts over, Enjolras continued to hover in Grantaire’s periphery, absently chewing his lip to shreds again. He didn’t notice when the faint scratching of the artist’s pencil stopped, or when he deliberately set it down on the table with a soft click, or even when he turned to glare at the moping revolutionary. The first inkling Enjolras had of any change at all was when Grantaire’s voice cut into his thoughts.

‘What?’ he demanded.

Enjolras snapped back to reality, bewilderment plain on his face.

‘Huh, what?’

‘You’ve been standing there for the past ten minutes, and I can’t think of anything I’ve done wrong recently, so clearly something is up. So spill, then I can get back to work.’

‘Oh, I, um. I was just wondering what you were doing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever been this flustered in his life, including that time when he was ten and Becky Watson has kissed him in front of all his friends for a dare.

‘Well, it’s too late now, I’m out of the zone. I have an assignment to turn in next week, and I sort of got hit by an idea, so I was trying to get it all down before it got away.’

‘Trying?’ he felt more and more like a fish out of water, horribly unfamiliar with Grantaire’s creative processes (and that was a really ugly phrase), or indeed his work.

‘Yep, well, these things are nebulous at best, so I need to set it on paper without looking too closely at the idea itself, or it sort of dissolves. I can feel it fading right now actually,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t – I’ll just. Go. Now...’

‘Like I said, the damage is done now, and I did manage to get a fair amount written down anyway, so you may as well say whatever it was you wanted to say.’

Whatever Enjolras might have thought of to express his feelings about Grantaire’s stupid eyes and stupid, perfect smile were lost under a wave of guilt and sheer cluelessness. Eyes wide and deer-like, he fumbled for words, knowing that he at least owed Grantaire the truth for the idea he had caused him to lose. What came out instead was:

‘Um. I just wanted to, to remind you that, uh, next week’s meeting is at seven, not 7.30.’

Well crap.

‘I know, E, you mentioned it already. Twice. I do listen to you sometimes, you know.’ Grantaire’s smile was tight and his eyes unconvinced as he gathered his sketchbook and pencils, packed his ratty old bag and left without saying goodbye.

Enjolras stood in the middle of the room, hands clenched into fists and fighting back tears of shame, both at his own spectacular failure and at the pain he had unintentionally caused his friend.

(Grantaire arrived at the following meeting at seven on the dot.)

******

They were all squatting Enjolras’ flat for the evening. There had been a restless energy at their ABC planning session that week, and Bossuet had suggested going back to someone’s place and watching bad action movies until they got it out of their system. Grantaire’s flat was closest, but also small and too full of easels and canvases to be of any use, so Enjolras offered his larger accommodation instead, and off they trooped. From there on, nothing quite worked out as planned...

For one thing, it had been a mistake to assume that thirteen people with the behaviour of unbroken colts would fit comfortably into a single living space, let alone that they would be able to shed their buzz by sitting still and watching pictures on a screen. They wanted to _be_ the action movie, not watch it.

Fairly soon, Courfeyrac, Cosette (trailing Marius) and Joly had retreated to the kitchen and were producing unholy amounts of pancakes if only to have something to do with themselves. They were taking it in turns flipping them, and getting increasingly competitive – nobody had yet topped Joly’s two-and-a-half-flips-in-one-go record, and it was only a matter of time before every surface would be covered in pancakes in varying stages of cookedness. Bahorel, meanwhile, had commandeered Enjolras’ table and was challenging everyone to arm-wrestling matches, calling them out for cowardice when nobody stepped forward, until Jehan hit him over the head with a rolled up newspaper. At that point, the two became a scrapping heap on Enjolras’ floor, and their host left the room so as not to witness the carnage.

The downside of this was that Enjolras found himself alone with Grantaire – who had seemingly fled to the hallway to smoke through the window at the end of it – for the first time since that disastrous attempt at conversation in the cafe. Enjolras contemplated wishing for a drink (because the way the smoke was curling from those lips was plain unfair), before deciding that _weighing the pros and cons of wishing for something_ was one level of abstract bullshit too far and making his way over to join the other man.  


‘What brings you out here, o captain my captain?’

‘I think Jehan is about to kill Bahorel on my living-room carpet, and my plausible deniability will be stronger if I don’t actually see it happen.’

Grantaire chuckled.

‘More fool you for letting them through the front door in that mood. I seriously don’t know what has everyone so wound up.’

Enjolras merely shrugged in response. He was actually rather proud of himself for not immediately launching into a rehash of his earlier explanation of benefit cuts and why this was a more than sufficient reason for _all_ of les Amis to be riled up.

‘I’m mostly just dreading the clean-up,’ he answered instead with a grimly resigned smile.

He got a sympathetic grimace in return, before Grantaire turned back to the window to blow out another rush of smoke. They stood in silence for a while, shoulders barely brushing, as Enjolras fought to get his heartbeat back under control and to tear his gaze away from R’s mouth. The realisation that this would be the perfect moment to say something hit him like a ton of bricks. After all, he had been his usual self just now, fully capable of coherent speech and relatively clear thinking (as clear as it ever could be this close to the object of his affections). He sucked in a deep breath, was on the verge of speaking, Grantaire angling himself towards him ever so slightly with one eyebrow raised, clearly listening, when a resounding crash echoed through the apartment and rattled the fixtures.

The moment vanished.

‘What the hell was that?!’

‘Is everyone OK?’ Enjolras called in alarm, just as a muffled ‘oh god, I am _so_ sorry’ emanated from the other room.

‘Bossuet,’ Grantaire stated, trying to suppress a grin.

‘Bossuet,’ Enjolras confirmed, hiding his face in his hands and breathing a deep sigh.

******

The Bus-stop Incident was barely worth mentioning (‘and why are we even calling it an incident?’ – ‘because it’s fun, obviously!’ – ‘but _nothing happened_ ’ – ‘spoilsport.’ – ‘I hate you’). It went something like this:

Grantaire and Enjolras were waiting for a bus, batting ideas back and forth (read: Enjolras would field an idea, Grantaire would shoot it down, rinse and repeat). The bus was late and this little game had been going on for some ten minutes, during which Enjolras didn’t even try to hide his smile. It was... easy. No raised voices or sharp words or miscommunications, and that knowledge alone made his heart swoop pleasantly.

He was in so much trouble.

He didn’t care.

Grantaire’s bus came, and he hopped aboard with a jaunty salute and a parting quip, and Enjolras continued to wait for his own ride home, feelings unexpressed but perfectly content.

******

It was, in retrospect, the calm before the storm, and when the thunder broke, Enjolras felt it like a lurch in his gut and a crackle along his skin. He stumbled from the sheer shock of it, so used had he become to tentative silences around Grantaire.

He was not sorry, though.

He and Grantaire were not made for smooth seas and light breezes, but to clash and throw sparks in the splintering of timber. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.

(He would not be sorry until later.) 

Three days earlier, Enjolras had had a heated debate with Marius about the pace of change in society and the means which might be used to speed it up. Marius, hopelessly naive but determined and well-spoken as ever, had fought his corner, maintaining that peaceful, _sedentary_ means were sufficient, that governments could listen as well – better – to level voices as to shouts. It was an argument which shared much with Combeferre’s preferred philosophy that education was the best way of making a difference, but whereas Combeferre was prepared to acknowledge that education alone might not always be enough, Marius was steadfast in his shining abstractions.

Most of their friends had been absent at the time: Jehan wandering the city in an effort to kick his writer’s block, Courfeyrac on a date, Combeferre and Joly in class, Bossuet laid low by a cold which his boyfriend swore was pneumonia, Feuilly at work and Cosette catching up with her father over coffee. Those who remained were largely ignoring Marius and Enjolras, chatting among themselves or (in Eponine’s case) dozing over large textbooks. Only Grantaire watched, his eyes glittering under his messy fall of hair, a hand loosely wrapped around his beer as he followed the argument like a spectator sport. He did not interject, but Enjolras’ stomach twisted every now and then when his peripheral vision got caught on the artist’s elliptical smile.

The discussion with Marius had ended, and they had gone home, straightening out their feathers, neither having budged an inch in their views.

At the next meeting, Marius simply showed up with a smile which Enjolras returned, and took up his usual spot by the bookshelf crammed with airport best-sellers left behind by other customers. Everything would have ended there, had Grantaire not sauntered in carrying a large cardboard folder whose worn-out elastics were struggling to contain the mass of papers within. Enjolras assumed it was art-related and thus paid him no attention (or at least no more than usual) beyond briefly marvelling that Grantaire would treat his work in such a haphazard way.

He was forced to revise his conclusions in the most dramatic of ways when Grantaire waltzed right up to him and dropped the folder on the table with a resounding thud and a smirk that could rival that of that girl from that fantasy TV show. Fighting down the myriad of half-fledged feelings that expression caused in him, Enjolras levelled an inquisitive glance at Grantaire and slowly reached for the folder, as though it might bite him. Grantaire merely nodded his encouragement and loped off to flop down in his chair.

It was not art. It was a carefully indexed, cross-referenced and labelled set of articles, studies and sociological data about the relative strengths, and especially weaknesses, of all the vehicles of change Enjolras had advocated so strongly when talking to Marius. Each was meticulously deconstructed, all of its potential pitfalls and proven track-records of not influencing anybody worth reaching laid out for Enjolras. His jaw clenched as he flicked through the first three, then five, then more. He gave up on the articles themselves and scanned the bibliography instead, feeling with distant horror that his throat and chest were closing up and that his eyes stung. He could barely begin to unpack all the reasons that this artfully compiled and artlessly tossed stack of research hurt, but he knew they all came down to Grantaire. Grantaire, who had put obvious effort into this, no matter how casually he acted afterwards. Who was so brilliant and perceptive. Who clearly listened to every word Enjolras said. _And then threw them back in his face_ , in a way clearly calculated to wound, attacking Enjolras’ dearest convictions with ruthless efficiency and a flippant smile. The snarl that tore from his throat was that of an animal in pain.

‘Why would you – ’

‘Because you need to see it,’ Grantaire cut him off before he had even finished voicing his hurt bafflement.

Enjolras’ jaw tightened again and a muscle in his cheek twitched before he exploded.

‘Damn it, Grantaire, are you capable of anything productive _at all_?’

Enjolras didn’t know what he expected would happen next. The words had come so suddenly that he hadn’t had the time to form expectations. But if he had had to guess, he would probably have said ‘fight’. Grantaire was never one to remain silent, or to allow anyone to get away with any kind of bullshit, and a part of Enjolras was spoiling for a good confrontation. What he got instead was a moment of stunned silence during which his words hung in the air. From his seat, Marius fixed him with a glare so dark it would have sent small children running. He barely noticed that, however, gaze trained on their cynic. Grantaire’s lips pressed together and he took a deep steadying breath before flashing a rueful half-smile that barely lifted his lips at Enjolras.

‘Maybe. Just you wait.’ There was no heat in it though. Nothing of a threat, barely anything of a promise.

All the fight went out of Enjolras, leaving him hollowed of everything but how upset he still was, how raw he felt, keel-hauled and bleeding and salt-stung.

‘Wait for what, Grantaire?’

‘Fucked if I know.’ They were both flatlining now, neither capable of processing the weight of their own and each other’s pain. Grantaire dragged himself to his feet with none of his usual grace and slouched out of the room without meeting anyone’s eye, leaving Enjolras to collapse, pale and shaking, into the seat he had just vacated. In small groups, the others quietly edged out too, and still Enjolras sat, dragging a hand across his face, feeling like he might be sick and unsure whether his eyes hurt from rubbing at them or from tears.

‘If it’s any consolation, you were both at fault.’ Courfeyrac stepped forward, his face kept deliberately mild and blank, but Enjolras did not look up or show any surprise at not being as alone as he thought.

‘It’s not,’ he replied, his expressive voice drained and monotonous.

Courfeyrac huffed a not-laugh and briefly squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder before heading out as well. He knew better than to force company on his friend at this point.

******

Grantaire missed the following two and a half weeks of meetings, hang-outs, coffees, movie nights and even drinking sessions (and yes, everyone was fully aware of how codependent they all were, thank you very much). He dropped off Enjolras’ radar entirely, and the only news he got was third-hand at best. His personal favourite was overhearing Bossuet tell Musichetta about a conversation during which Grantaire had threatened not to attend his funeral. And well, wasn’t that a cheerful thought?

He was entirely unsurprised at how much it hurt. He was, however, surprised at how long it took him to stop scanning every room he walked into for a familiar face that wasn’t there.

But still the stalemate continued, both parties alternating between self-righteous refusal to be the first to apologise and despondent certainty of their own inadequacy.

‘It’s like the bloody First World War with you too,’ Courfeyrac groaned, questioning his taste in friends for the umpteenth time. Combeferre rubbed his back sympathetically and offered him a biscuit without looking up from his own notes. Courfeyrac accepted the snack with a grateful sigh, nibbling at it and wondering why it had taken them this long to notice that Combeferre was essentially housetraining their entire friend-group. Ah well, it could be worse, he supposed. At least he wasn’t engaged in some mutual I-am-so-unworthy Mexican standoff with the hypothetical love of his life. Not like some. Of course, Enjolras was never going to take action by himself – just trying to get him to admit to his feelings at all had been like pulling teeth, so the concept of getting him to do it when he and Grantaire weren’t even on civil terms was too monumental to contemplate. Clearly, they needed a push.

Thus was the War Council convened (‘and really, dear, must you make everything sound so dramatic?’ – ‘but Jehan – ’ – ‘I can practically hear the capitalisation. Now stop pouting.’). In the end, it was Bahorel of all people who came up with the most foolproof plan, and the conspirators were sworn in.

******

Grantaire thought nothing of it when Jehan dropped by his flat with a clunky old camera and a floral umbrella. The grey light that came just after the rain was particularly lovely, and he himself had been contemplating going for a walk in the hope of seeing something that might grab his attention. So they set off, and if Jehan was more than usually giggly, it was probably due to the secret joys of the trees or something – sometimes Jehan went to places even R could not follow. Their footsteps took them along the river and Jehan began happily photographing gulls and muttering to himself about Baudelaire.

He remained entirely unsuspicious right up until the moment he espied a familiar blonde head, attached to an equally familiar person seated on a bench, where he had been conveniently parked by Bahorel, who had then promptly disappeared with the excuse of needing more cigarettes. Grantaire groaned as the subterfuge became apparent and turned to rail at Jehan for his treason, only to notice that his friend had vanished as if into air. Damn ninja. He almost turned tail and ran, more than ready to become properly acquainted with the bottom of a bottle or four, but Enjolras had seen him. That would normally not have been an obstacle to the cutting and running strategy, only the look on his face was almost hopeful, and Grantaire had never been able to control his most self-destructive impulses. He sank gracelessly onto the bench next to the other man and they sat in silence for a while.

‘Our friends are sneaky, heartless bastards. Where do we sign up for new ones?’

That got a half-hearted chuckle from Enjolras, which was sort of the best Grantaire had hoped for. He snuck a glance at him only to find himself the object of intense scrutiny; almost flinching, he turned back to look at his knees. The silence dragged, uncomfortable but not excruciating in the clean-washed air.

‘Watch them wheel. The gulls, I mean, not the pigeons.’ Grantaire had started to speak if only to have something to do other than count his own heartbeats in his throat, but as so often, once he was off he lost all brain-to-mouth control. ‘They’ve become a pest too, mind you. Rats of the sky, all of them, or so they say. The way they eat garbage, moving further and further inland – remember the ones in Finding Nemo? I know you watched it with Gavroche that time, Eponine told me, so don’t even try to pretend otherwise. And they’re all sitting there, just squawking ‘mine, mine, mine’. A bit like people, really – always wanting things and asserting ownership without ever being able to point to what ownership is, or where it comes from, or why it is right. Because what does ‘mine’ even mean? Locke thought he knew, and Nozick disagreed, but really, what does either of them know? You make something, so it belongs to you. But nobody makes things out of nothing. And what about ideas? Anyway, gulls. Probably no better than pigeons, but I’ll still take them over pigeons any day – that flash of wings, like blades, grey on the grey sky, they’re beautiful. Miniature albatrosses. Albatroi? What would the plural of that be? Not that the albatross has a particularly happy history either, mind you – thought to be bringers of bad luck. Don’t shoot an albatross, they would say – like in that other film, Master and Commander, where the ship’s doctor gets shot by the man trying to bring down the albatross. Baudelaire thought otherwise, but he seems to have been rather good at that. Turned the tables on the sailors – it wasn’t that the bird was bad news for them, but that they were terrible news for it. An exiled prince, he called the albatross, whose giant wings prevent him from walking. Of course, it was all terribly self-important, because the albatross is the most blatant self-insert since Dante’s Inferno, but the poem is rather lovely anyway. You can blame Jehan for my Baudelairian ramblings. Well, you can blame Jehan for a lot of things actually, but especially for this. And especially in relation to the gulls. Kept reciting it as we walked, the devious little pixie. Anyway – ’

‘Grantaire.’ The amusement was thick in Enjolras’ voice, and he brushed Grantaire’s shoulder with a fleeting hand, as though to remind him of the present and to slow him in his musings. It had the desired effect, stopping Grantaire dead in his tracks as he fixed a slightly startled gaze on Enjolras, almost as though he had forgotten he was there.

‘Look, R, I’m not saying either of us is exactly whiter than white in this, but I shouldn’t have said that to you, and I’m sorry.’

‘Why? I mean, it was a totally justified reaction. What I did was seriously shitty – I stand by the content of that file, but putting it together and flinging it at you like that... I’d have been livid. Besides, you were right, what you said about me.’ The last words were spoken softly, not like a secret, but a matter-of-fact little afterthought that took Enjolras’ breath away. It was his turn to flinch, and when Grantaire looked up at the sudden movement, he had to blink to make sure he was seeing right. Enjolras looked... well, he looked devastated. And that was not something Grantaire had ever thought he would have to deal with. He was not equipped to deal with it.

‘I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.’

Grantaire had spent what felt like his whole life steadfastly doubting every word that came from Enjolras’ lips, but not once had he doubted the man’s sincerity. Enjolras meant those words. The enormity of that flattened Grantaire’s lungs, and he tore his eyes away from his friend to stare out into the middle distance and try to breathe. In, out. In, out. And still Enjolras ploughed on, relentless:

‘You are one of the best people I know, and I am in awe of your mind, I really am, and I am so, so sorry that I made you doubt that even for an instant.’

‘Stay here,’ Grantaire managed to gasp before lurching off the bench to lean heavily on the railing of the embankment a little way away. Closing his eyes, he breathed through his panic until he had himself under brittle control once more.

******

The fifteen minutes it took Grantaire to return were some of the longest of Enjolras’ life. He watched like a hawk, uncomprehending but almost-afraid, attempting to read the workings of Grantaire’s mind from the curve of his spine and the bone-white of his knuckles, visible even at a distance. He marked the moment of that first, shuddering breath that seemed to wrack the whole slender frame of the man, counted inhales and exhales, tried to spot the exact moment Grantaire managed to reassemble himself into functional limbs and thoughts. And throughout – perhaps for the first time – he did as he was told and stayed put.

Judging by Grantaire’s face when he turned back to the bench, he had not expected Enjolras to obey, and Enjolras wondered whether that was just because of his own track record of flipping the bird at any form of authority, or because Grantaire never seemed to expect anything much from him. He desperately hoped it was the former.

Grantaire made his way over and offered a wan smile.

‘Hey,’ he huffed. His face was twisted in apology, but he offered no explanation.

‘Hey,’ Enjolras responded, more tentatively still.

They sat in silence, and Enjolras eventually, very gently leaned over a little to bump Grantaire with his shoulder. After a moment, Grantaire returned the gesture, just as softly. The air grew cooler and softer around them as the grey afternoon dwindled into grey dusk, and time and again, the words burbled up in Enjolras’ chest, trying to spill from his lips, to explain to Grantaire that... But no. He might have severely misjudged him, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to try again and expect different results. The scientific method was not suitable for application to one’s friends.  


******

The following week, Grantaire showed up at the meeting and the collective sigh of relief was almost audible. Not only had Enjolras been nigh-unbearable, but they had all been worried about the effect that exile might have on Grantaire in the long run. The relief soon gave way to a new worry, though, when the usual volley of eloquent monologues on futility was not forthcoming, and Grantaire instead sat hunched and quiet, fidgeting with his hands. What had happened? Had their plan not worked? Had Enjolras managed to fuck up even more spectacularly than last time? (Was that even possible?) Surely not – Grantaire was back, after all, that had to mean _something_. They shifted uneasily in their seats and exchanged helpless glances until even Enjolras noticed and shot them all a furious ‘I don’t know’ glare-and-shrug. Only the subject of this silent exchange remained oblivious to its existence. The meeting carried on in awkward fits and starts, like a machine whose joints had rusted, creaking and settling, until Enjolras had a stroke of inspiration.

‘... and I know how it sounds, but I really do think that if we deluge them with enough letters and printed material, they will be forced to at least respond publically,’ Joly was explaining to his unconvinced-looking audience.

Enjolras smiled slowly to himself and mentally apologised to Joly for what he was about to do (he’d get him something nice later).

‘R, what do you think?’ the question rang out loudly into the sudden silence and Grantaire’s head shot up, his gaze wide and disbelieving and a slow smile opening up his face. Enjolras could only guess at what his own face looked like, but Grantaire must have read some kind of permission or blessing in it, for his smile suddenly turned wicked.

Slowly and deliberately, he crossed his arms on the table, leant forward, one eyebrow arched, and drawled, ‘a letter-writing campaign, Joly? Really? Joly. Jolllly, Jolllly, you are a seasoned activist,’ (his accompanying eye-roll was probably a reflex by now), ‘surely you know better than that. Letter-writing campaigns are what shredders were invented for. They take one look at the first line of each document and consign it to the Giant Shredder of Doom. All evil mega-corporations have one of those in their basement, you know, it’s in the legal requirements for getting your seal of evil approval. Your lovely, carefully planned, razor-sharp words will end up in delicate ribbons of paper. If you’re really lucky, those might get reused as Christmas decorations. Of course, if you are doing this as a valiant effort to support the declining manufacturing industry of this country by fuelling the demand for shredders, I can only commend your public spirit, though I should warn you that very few Giant Shredders of Doom are produced on home soil these days. The cost of labour, I’m sure you understand...’ here he waved a magnanimous hand. ‘Beside, my four-winged friend, you of all of us in the room must be the most keenly aware of the effects that pollution and global warming will have on human health, so you cannot condone such large-scale support of the dangerously toxic paper industry. It’s funny how often it’s the really innocuous daily products – or even the ones sold as eco-friendly – that are the most damaging to our world and thus to our own moral credentials.’

How long he might have carried on in this vein was unclear, especially since the assembled Amis were far too glad to have their R back on full form to interrupt him, but Grantaire caught himself – perhaps the bemusement on someone’s face had brought him up short, who could tell. He seemed almost to sway backward, still smiling, before rallying himself for his conclusion.

‘In short, dear Joly, you might as well paint your slogans on the flanks of doves and release them above your target’s headquarters on a sunny morning, for all the effect your letter-writing will have.’

(Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras could have sworn he saw Joly give him a thumbs up).

******

They spilled laughing from the bar to the street, the cold air dispelling some of the fog of alcohol from their minds and weaving it into clouds in front of their faces. The small hours of the morning were approaching, but they all felt vibrantly alive, bursting with affection for one another.

‘Come on guys, it’s not a party ‘til you’ve had an after-party!’

‘Are you volunteering to host?’

‘Hell yeah! Marius, that cool with you?’

Marius solemnly laid a hand on Courfeyrac’s forehead in benediction. ‘Yes, my friend, it’s cool with me.’

Everyone laughed, jostling Marius as Courfeyrac punched the air. ‘You hear that, ‘Ferre? Your birthday carries on. Forward, gang!’ Disentangling himself with some difficult from the knot of bodies, he began to lead the way back to the apartment, staggering only occasionally. Shouting, singing, their throats warm with alcohol and mirth, the others followed in a ragged band.

Grantaire brought up the rear, occasionally calling out the next Disney number for everyone to join in with. Enjolras, more sober than the rest (though not by much) slowed until they were walking side by side at the back. Sneaking glances at the other man, Enjolras’ breath caught and hung suspended for a moment at how Grantaire’s eyes seemed to sparkle under the sodium lights, how he shone when he was happy. Without thinking, he reached across the gap between them and grasped his hand. Grantaire’s whole body stuttered as the rhythm of his breath and his steps faltered, and he turned wide eyes on Enjolras, who met his gaze with a shocked little smile of his own, like he couldn’t believe he had had the audacity to do that.

‘Is this... OK?’

‘... Yeah.’ It was a barely a word, more a wondering little gust of yes-shaped air and feeling. Enjolras wished he could capture that sound and play it whenever he was feeling upset or unsettled.

They walked on. Ahead, their friends still laughed and chattered, and though they were never far from the group, they felt detached from it, warmest at the point where their hands touched through their gloves.

‘This might be a good time to mention I’m sort of in love with you.’

‘Oh.’

Enjolras braced himself at that, fearing that he had misread Grantaire’s state of mind and that another panic attack was imminent. The silence coiled tight around them and he found that his heart was hammering in his throat. Then, through layers of fabric and leather, Grantaire’s hand tightened fractionally around his and he remembered how to breathe.

‘Combeferre’s gonna be pissed that we upstaged his twenty-first.’

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback of any kind is always wonderful, and if you come say hi on tumblr (at-heart-a-gentleman), you will probably make my day, if not my week.
> 
> Also, seriously, teach me the magical ways of turning words into links in author's notes.


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